Blowing Off Steam
by firstbookscape
Summary: What happens when the men of the Seaview have had too many monsters, aliens and other creeps that go bump in the night? They blow off a little steam, of course.


Blowing off Steam

"Holy cow!" Michael Beckham breathed, gazing at the check in his boss's hand. "I thought rent for parties was a hundred bucks."

"This client said things might get a bit rowdy. His, uh, employees, need to blow off some steam. Also might be a bunch of men. So he's rented the entire place for the night."

"How many?" A mess at 1 a.m. didn't appeal to Michael at all.

"Could be upwards of a hundred, but I was assured there probably wouldn't be that many."

"I hope not, there's fire code to think about."

"It won't be a problem, our license allows for 150 on the premises. We'll be closed for this private party. We won't be letting in anybody off the street."

"That's a good thing. By the way, who is this guy that has more money than sense?" Michael asked, then ducked his head. Even though Brent Darwood was as much a friend as he was boss, this was work and Michael was still an employee.

Brent didn't seem to take offense. "Admiral Harriman Nelson."

Michael gulped. " _The_ Admiral Nelson?"

"The."

Michael had certainly heard of Nelson and his famous submarine. Every once in a while they were in the news for pulling someone's fat out of the fire, occasionally the whole world. Still, why the heck would a class act outfit like that want to hang out in an ocean side bar, even a ritzy one like Brent's? Michael decided it was time for discretion. "What do you want me to do to prepare for all these guys? I am assuming that we're talking the submariners."

"I assumed that, too. Just have plenty of booze, peanuts and pretzels. Tell the cooks to have lots of sandwich fixin's and sides ready to whip together tomorrow. Call Hank and Phil to come in, too. Don't want you to kill yourself making drinks. Get Patty and Brittney, too."

And that was exactly what Michael did. The suppliers didn't ask questions, obviously grateful for the extra business. When the notices went up on the door, several regulars griped, but a few words from Brent, probably a promise of a free drink the next time they came in, soothed tempers. The staff of Brent's, "the best damn bar on the beach," as their advertising touted, was ready.

About fifty men came in at opening time. Several of them had medium-sized boxes, which they took back to the game room and to the dance area. Soon there was the sound of tables and chairs being moved. Michael looked in and saw that the submariners were not being rough with the furniture, so he left them at it. The next time he peeked, he was surprised to see about a dozen dart boards on the wall behind the band stand in addition to the ones already in the game room. Pictures had been pinned to all the boards. Michael was even more surprised to see small pictures being pasted on the pool balls. Most of them were drawings, but some were photographs. He peered closer to see if he recognized any of them.

"Don't try to figure this out, Mac," an obviously New York native informed him. About medium height with dark hair, the guy wasn't the least bit threatening. "It's a _Seaview_ thing."

"Oh." Michael went back behind the bar. "By the way, who's the artist?"

"One of the crewmen," the New Yorker said. "Hey, Patterson, come on over. You have an admirer."

"What do you need, Chief?"

"This guy was admiring your artwork."

Patterson smiled at the bartender. "Thanks. It's a hobby of mine, after photography."

"You ought to be a sci-fi book illustrator," Michael told him, remembering how outlandish some of the drawings were.

Patterson blushed slightly.

"Go on. Get the rest of them up, Pat," the chief ordered.

"I still wish we could have done this at a gun range, Chief," Patterson said. "Much more satisfying."

"Yeah, but darts are safer when you meatheads get drunk."

Another man came in with two swords tucked under his arm. This one had his dark hair slicked sharply to the side. When he saw Michael staring at him, he grinned and said, "Arrr…." And then he sauntered into the game room.

"Are you the bartender?"

Michael turned from the pirate wannabe to a slightly shorter man with reddish hair. He gaped. "Admiral Nelson?"

A smile and a nod confirmed Michael's question. "I want my men to have a good time. There shouldn't be any problems, but if there are, just let me know and I'll pay for the damages above what I gave to your boss. And by the way, if any of the men start looking a little glassy-eyed, no more booze. Admiral's orders."

It was the admiral's dime. "No problem, sir," Michael replied.

"And the party is over at one," another voice added. This guy had the same kind of intense blue eyes as Admiral Nelson, but his hair was much thinner and his face looked like it was always worried.

"Should give everyone plenty of time to unwind." Turning to Michael, Nelson ordered, "A Scotch for me and one for Doc here."

The two men took their drinks to a table near the game room, where, Michael presumed, they could keep an eye on their men. The bartender drew beer for most of the men. He figured they were sailors; non-coms.

"Take that, Blackbeard!" one of them shouted just before something metallic crashed into the wall. Alarmed, Michael dashed out from behind the bar and ran toward the game room. A cutlass had been thrown at one of the dart boards bearing the likeness of a heavily bearded pirate. The point was right between the drawing's eyes.

"Four to one I get the Lobster Man on the first throw!" another sailor hollered from the other room.

"You're on. You miss, you owe me a beer."

"Beer's free anyway. I miss, I'll do your galley duty. I get it and you do my laundry."

"Done!"

The object of the bet was a drawing of a human-sized, upright lobster with a human face. _These guys have a great imagination_ , Michael thought. He motioned to the 'junior' bartender to call him if it got too busy back at the bar.

Patterson held a dart and studied the board. He eye-balled the board and prepared to throw.

"Come on, hurry up!"

"You wrecked my concentration!" Patterson studied some more and then threw. The dart hit dead center. "I win. You can pick up my laundry in the morning."

There was more good-natured grumbling. The lobster man was ripped down and a drawing of a clown took its place. Another dart board had a photograph of a white ape with a horn sticking out of its head. Lizard men, puppets, werewolves, and things that looked like aliens were being skewered, slashed and ripped.

Darts were flying like arrows toward the boards. "Take that, Mikey O'Shaughnessey!" "You are dead meat, Gelid." "Bam! You stinkin' toy! Take that!" "This one's for you, Pem!" _Crash!_ A mug hit that dart board. Several more met the same fate.

Someone had built a pyramid out of pool balls—Michael had to ask them how they did that. One of the other men pitched the cue ball at it as though it was a baseball. "Bowling for fossil men!" the seaman shouted as the white ball hit the pyramid. Balls flew off the table and rattled across the floor. One bounced into a beer mug, splashing suds everywhere. "Back into the lava pit for you!" several men shouted together, then laughed hysterically. "Hey, Chief, your turn. We got you a dinosaur!"

Michael headed back to the bar as the submariners got louder and more raucous. There had been a steady stream of men through the doors. He figured they were getting close to the number Brent had mentioned. Everyone was obviously having fun, but where all these objects of their derision came from was beyond him. When he passed the admiral and doc's table, Michael noticed they had been joined by two other men. One, he figured, was probably the captain of the sub. The other one, a blond, must be another higher ranking officer.

"You sure you don't want to have a hand nailing a centaur or Dr. Turner, Chip?" the captain asked.

"No more than you want to have a go at Krueger or the clown," the blond officer replied.

Nelson chuckled. He was nursing the last of his Scotch.

"Would you like another round, Admiral?"

"Yes, and for everyone else at the table."

"No more for me, Admiral," Doc said. "I have to do all the medical exams tomorrow after the psychologists are done."

Nelson noted Michael's open-mouthed confusion. "Ever wanted to blow off a little steam after a big final?"

Michael nodded.

"Well, this is like that, only it comes after a few courses from hell—and before the final exam." He looked at his watch. "A quick round of beers for the men and then we'll probably need to pack up for the night. We have to get right back into it tomorrow." Raucous laughter from the game and music room seemed to punctuate the admiral's comment. Someone began playing on the drums with accompaniment from a few stomping feet.

Yeah, Michael thought, there were times when he had really appreciated blowing off steam.


End file.
